


A Boy and His Dog

by sian1359



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Comics/Movie Crossover, M/M, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets adopted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Boy and His Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Archer and His (Pizza) Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/941428) by [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/pseuds/Chibifukurou), [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359). 



> Written for the Avengers Reverse Big Bang: Summer 2013. In addition to providing something I hope the artist enjoys, it's my take on bringing Lucky from the Hawkeye Comic into the MCU. You can check out the art at http://chibifukurou.livejournal.com/62488.html or on the link below.
> 
> Beta'ed by Auburn.
> 
> Trope Bingo Round Two Square: Chosen Family (Free Square)

 

A block away from Sacco's, slice in hand (minus the bites he's already taken), Clint gets the idea that he's being followed. Normally a few paparazzi hang around the tower, but they are there to catch Tony or Steve (or Thor or Pepper when either are in in town; for all that the Avengers are now an ongoing thing, neither Clint or Bruce garner much attention, and even Tasha stays under their radar unless she's intentionally letting them recognize her).  He would have noted their presence at his initial departure anyway, had one of them joined him in the mile's walk to the best pizza place in Manhattan.

He's not actually spotted any one person he can pin his feeling to. It's more like someone is just beyond the edge of his peripheral vision and only his years of experience have clued him in. For someone to be able to manage that, they're definitely not paparazzi. It's not like Clint follows any routine to his trips, not in where he heads out to lunch (it's been months since he's last gone to Sacco's), nor in the time he leaves (it's almost three now; well past lunch and still pre-dinner for most people).  He just as rarely goes out without sunglasses, a ball cap or a hoodie, and he always keeps his head down and turned away from cameras unless he's in the midst of an altercation. Today he's wearing a hoodie, though with the hood down and relying on sunglasses to make him less noticeable; although it's been raining all morning, the storm has broken up and the sun's blinding when it pierces through.

Clint supposes it could be one of the baby agents assigned to the tower honing their skills or, more likely, having been tasked directly to Avenger-sitting for having fucked up to the point where it got back to Phil or Fury. (Hill, being old school military before joining SHIELD, would have simply assigned a screw-up with cleaning the helicarrier with a toothbrush.) Otherwise, it's a stalker, either an admirer or _most_ likely someone gunning for him. It's not like he doesn't have a personal enemy or three beyond those whose wrath he's incurred working for SHIELD. Those aren't taking into account the new crop of bad guys that have decided to make their bones by targeting an Avenger, either. (They, however, generally announce themselves with a monologue, a rabid, giant-sized rodent or robot, or their own spandex outfit that makes Steve's Captain America uniform seem tame – sometimes with all three.)

While Clint won't make himself an easy target, he's a great believer in getting things out into the open – especially the bad things. Which, in this instance, means drawing the tail into a confrontation rather than evading them since, if it's a contract hit, they're not just going to go away. He'd prefer not to be dead just yet, but he doesn't worry about the bullet with his name on it; as he well knows, if the assassin is good enough, there won't be anything Clint can do. Depending on who is out there and how they feel about collateral damage, short of walking around in an iron suit like Tony's, circumstances in the future might prove less advantageous for Clint if he doesn't deal with it now.

Since he more or less lives in Stark Tower now when he's in New York, Clint has learned all the streets and alleyways within a five mile radius of the monument to Tony's ego as well as the abandoned buildings and those still undergoing reconstruction from the Chitauri invasion. He knows which shops and office buildings he can duck into for alternate exits (like accessible roofs and balconies). He's tempted, this one time, to find a place to hole up in at least until he finishes his lunch, but that could endanger other people and Clint's had enough of being the cause of innocents getting hurt or dead. For the same reason, he decides against calling it in; he still doesn't have eyes on whoever has eyes on him, and there are enough agents, even now, who think he's still a head case after Loki for him to have concerns in being the 'boy who cried wolf'.

Instead, he takes a shortcut through one of the buildings that's more framework than finished, one that suffered its damage as much from the Hulk and Thor as from one of those fucking whale-like Chitauri troop carriers. (Clint would still like to know what they were, living creature or construct, and is disappointed that Tony hasn't bulled his way into that ongoing deconstruction work like he has so many other SHIELD projects and operations, but Clint also understands why Tony can't go there yet; sometimes Clint still has trouble even looking at Thor, much less interacting with him, because of Thor's kinship with Loki.) The construction abuts a recently opened souvenir shop with a back entrance, and Clint can't help but cringe upon sighting the shelves of tacky Avengers memorabilia (although he'll have to come back with Phil for his Captain America collection, and Tasha might like one of the Iron Man bobble heads – at least for target practice) as he heads to the front without even slowing. This door dumps him back on a street of scattered pedestrians, the difference from the first thoroughfare being less boarded up windows and a landlord requirement for awnings that, thanks to the sun valiantly chasing away the gloom and puddles from the morning, produce from their  tinted windows, a good if blurry view of anyone behind him for a full block.

The feeling of being followed persists despite there being no one he can clearly identify as moving with him. No one comes out of the shop after him and while any good tail requires more than one hunter, no one already on the street seems to take any interest in his passing. No one is just hanging around, pretending to wait for a bus or stopping to text with their phone, and the larger percentage of the pedestrians are moving away from him, not along the same direction. With reluctance, Clint turns a corner, this time onto one of the streets fully devastated from the battle and still closed to vehicular traffic. Here he finds a few lurkers already in place, taking pictures or reaching out to touch or add to the excess of ad hoc memorials that have lingered, but the rain has discouraged too many people from gawking. 

Clint moves down the street to ostensibly look at some tagger's cartoonish portrayal of Iron Man, Captain America, Thor and the Hulk (he is simply represented by arcing arrows and Natasha is simply an overly curved shadow figure); the art is a damn sight easier to deal with than the photo walls of the lost or the piles of rubble festooned with flowers, stuffed animals and the other outpourings of people's grief.  From here he can take in the crosswalks of the street he just left, but the only thing that turns the corner after him is a dog and it takes Clint a moment to pick up on the incongruousness of that.

Manhattan has strict leash laws. Like any city, it has its budget woes even with Tony Stark writing the checks for much of the restoration, but animal control enforcement remains a top priority. Tourists have a thing about stepping in shit, not to mention getting chased or bitten.

No one appears to be running after the dog – or trailing after Clint. He gives it a little more time before he starts walking again when no change comes in the number of people around him, absently taking a new bite of his pizza and only mildly resenting that he's let it grow cold since it's still the best damn slice he's ever had. Focusing on his pizza over his surroundings makes it easier to maneuver past all the reminders of Loki, Phil and the Tesseract, and he purposely does not listen to the comments the few people he passes are making to one another. While he knows he is unrecognizable to any casual observer, he doesn't dawdle and, when the opportunity arises, he takes the first narrow cross street that connects to another barely used thoroughfare, which in turn leads to the major street hosting the tower, although he's still nearly half a mile away.

The dog follows him.

He gives it a look, noting that while it isn't scrawny or visibly injured or starving as if living off the streets for any length of time, it's still got a scruffier look than most owners would allow. Clint refuses to believe it's a casualty of the Chitauri battle, abandoned or left without an owner for all these months, but not all of the damage around him happened then; Doom and the Fantastic Four had a throw down not too far away only a week ago, with their share of property damage and casualties. So the dog could have gotten loose then and been on the street no more than a few days. Irresponsible of the owner not to have recovered it, but bigger concerns might have arisen than finding a lost dog.

Were he really the superhero everyone was calling him, he supposes he should try to catch the dog – or call animal control. Steve would have. But Clint already has to deal with too many comparisons to Captain America (all in his own head, he knows; Phil hasn't and would never hold Clint up to the same standards of his childhood hero), and Clint has a thing about cages, even if the owner could be found quickly and the dog wouldn't have to stay contained for more than a few hours.

The dog, it seems, has a different idea, however.

Clint decides to undertake one last maneuver to ease his mind about being followed. With the sun temporarily chased back behind the storm clouds, he uses the deepening shadows around him to duck out of sight and through the opening left by a torn roll-up door into the empty storeroom of an abandoned building that's missing most of its front as well. The only footsteps he can hear are the dog's, which comes right up to where Clint is waiting before it stops, plops down, and then lays down to rest its head on Clint's boot.

"Really, pup?" he finds himself asking while he also quietly freaks out at the purposefulness of the dog's actions. It is just a pup; some sort of mutt with the ears and muzzle of a terrier and the lines of retriever, its – his – feet too big for the rest of the body. The dog wags his tail at Clint's words and moves his head just enough to look up, first at Clint, then at the remaining third of Clint's pizza while giving him _eyes_.

"Hell, no," Clint growls and pulls up his hand holding the pizza reflexively, although the dog isn't big enough to reach it even if he got off his ass and jumped.  That garners him a brisker tail thump, the dog seemingly content just to have Clint talking as he lays his head back down, still across Clint's feet.  It has a collar, Clint sees, complete with a little bone tag hanging from it.

Feeling like an idiot when all he'd have to do is shuffle his feet and maybe sprint to ditch the dog, Clint instead squats down (although he keeps his pizza upraised). He lets the dog take a sniff of his hand first and receives a lick for his consideration, then moves it and gives a good scratch behind the dog's ears before he keeps his fingers scratching and moving down to the ruff so he can carefully twist the collar.

The dog's name is Arrow, the tag informs him, who just so happens to live at the same address Clint does. While there are indeed businesses with employees working in the tower, no one other than the Avengers, a few SHIELD personnel, and Tony's friends are living there, and outside of a few lab animals (and Tony's bots), the building has a no pets policy. Which means Arrow's owner can't live there and Clint's leery about them working there either. Who, after all, would list their work address for a pet's home address?

Paranoia returning in an instant (some things being too weird or too much of a coincidence to be borne), this time Clint doesn't second guess himself about dropping the pizza and pulling out his phone to call it in now while he keeps hold of the dog to make sure it doesn't bolt. SHIELD doesn't use animals as tools for espionage or assassination, but Natasha has told him and Phil more than one tale about her former employers undertaking such gambits. Not to mention that Phil and Fury knew firsthand the effectiveness of booby-trapping a dog in a warzone since such an action had cost Fury his eye.

Kicking himself for letting down his guard so badly to even let the dog approach, Clint presses the little HAL eye icon on his Stark phone

 _Sir?_ comes the response over speaker.

 JARVIS is Tony's sentient AI that, in addition to sounding and acting more human than many real humans Clint could name, also runs all of the mechanical and security systems in the town. As such, he uses no names or identifies himself and, thereby, gives away potentially damning information, one of the reasons Clint felt he could call him instead of SHIELD. That, and because JARVIS has an extensive sensor array that can coopt Clint's special edition phone to scan for explosives.

(No one unauthorized – and JARVIS can also run voice detection – can use this version of a Stark phone; should someone else answer JARVIS' query is this kind of situation, the phone immediately dumps all of its relevant GPS data back to JARVIS, and be impossible to turn off despite appearing to go through its normal shut down procedure as at least a starting point should the owner, more than the phone, get taken.)

"Explosives check," Clint orders, then sets the phone down to start performing his own, hands on check. The dog doesn't object, too involved in scarfing down the abandoned pizza.

 _Underway,_ JARVIS confirms with no dithering or asking of questions in a way that reminds Clint of the best of Phil in the worst of times as Clint's handler. So many other of Clint's various handlers over the years had demanded details as well as a response in similar or just as shaky circumstances, whether Clint was in a position or had the safety to answer, then writing him up for insubordination afterward (not that some of the times Clint hadn't just been insubordinate with his failure to answer stupid questions).

"That better be the only thing you cost me," Clint mutters over the loss of the pizza, not wanting to think about past missions and his handlers pre-Phil. He's not really blaming the dog, of course, not for taking advantage of free food, for potentially having a shitty owner or, so obvious now, for having excelled in performing to his training. (Someone, somewhere, had somehow gotten a hold of something of Clint's to have been able to get the dog to fixate on him as it had, though to what end, since there had already been plenty of time to blow the both of them up, Clint had no clue.)

 _I detect no significant explosives accumulation nor residue in your immediate vicinity,_ JARVIS tells him. _I do detect the presence of an RFID chip other than the locator in your phone. Would you like me to ping it and see if I can unencrypt the information?_

Good question. Clint's not a fan of chips and implants although he'll admit, mostly to himself, that most of his concerns about them come from conspiracy theories and bad sci-fi movies and not direct experience. It is all too easy to imagine an innocuous transmission setting off something, however. If not a bomb, then perhaps the dog himself. Of course, if he can't take on a fifteen pound puppy …

"Yeah, go ahead, JARVIS." He doesn't really know what kind of information people put on a pet's RFID chip; outside of the circus animals he cared for, he's never had any pets and common place RFID tech hadn't exited when he was a kid, anyway. He has little doubt that JARVIS can hack it, however, just as he's not surprised when JARVIS then says:

_Tony and Steve are asking if you require any assistance._

Considering it was one of his own suggestions that JARVIS inform whichever Avengers are on hand when someone touched their phone's JARVIS icon as an alert system (and it had taken Bruce hulking out and doing about $50k in damage to one of the tower's labs after the third time Tony had touched the icon to call up his AI to basically bullshit about something that had come to mind, for Tony to get it into his head that using the icon meant a potential real emergency instead of it simply being more convenient than having to go into his contact list), he could hardly resent or regret JARVIS' initiative, even though Tony would most likely razz him about being snuck up on by a dog later.

"Tell them thank you, but it looks like it's a false alarm."

At least Tasha wasn't around – or Phil. Both of them would have taken the alert too seriously, would be more worried and Phil, especially, didn't need any added stress. (Phil has been back to field status and full duty for three weeks now, good enough – _well_ enough – to get clearance from his doctors as well as Fury, but that didn't mean he's fully recovered from basically dying at Loki's hand, or that Clint's done with being … okay, overly protective.)

_Very good, sir. The RFID chip belongs to a local registry for pet owners.  Do you wish for me to delve further?_

"Can you usually get the name and contact information of the owner through those?" Clint asks as he gives up trying to find something wrong with the dog and simply returns to petting and scratching him in return for the indignities he let Clint take to ratchet down his paranoia. Clint still didn't have an answer to why the dog is named Arrow, or why Clint's public address is listed as the dog's, but if anyone could crack the mystery, it would be JARVIS, and maybe, somehow, it really was all just some weird coincidence and an overly friendly dog with a thing for pepperoni pizza instead of Clint personally.

 _The owner is listed as Hawkeye, care of the Avengers,_ comes JARVIS' answer, exactly what Clint does not want to hear.

 _The billing address for the chip, however, belonged to a Claire and Matthew Baker,_ JARVIS continues, _and is located seven blocks north of your present location. Property records show that it is a townhome that sold four days ago. Further checking reveals a newspaper obituary for a Matthew Baker, eight days ago. The Bakers have a son, Matthew Jr., age six._

Clint stills his hands although he doesn't remove them. "Check those names against SHIELD employment records," he requests despite being pretty sure JARVIS isn't going to find either a Claire or Matthew Baker listed.

He doesn't know everyone at SHIELD, of course, but he has made a point of learning the names of all of the employees he regularly interacts with, including those outside field operations such as in one of the commissaries or over in accounting, medical, or the motor pool. He also knows the names of all of the secretaries and PAs that Phil trusts and uses, probably all of the physical therapists good and bad, wherever they've been  assigned to by SHIELD, as well as the people in charge of the physical training rooms, the ranges and weapons storage in the major bases as well as on the helicarrier. He knows a Phyllis Baker and a Rasheen Bakker, along with three Claires and five Matts, and not one of them a Baker.

_There is no record of either being within SHIELD employee or on the payroll as a consultant or informant. It would take longer to cross-check against the names of people SHIELD investigated, arrested or put out of business –_

"I don't think one of those people would have left me a dog." Which is what Clint can only conclude, not that it makes any more sense than anything else he's been thinking since the dog first appeared.

_As you say, sir. Might I suggest that if you are going to investigate the townhome, that you first drop off the dog with a local vet to have it looked over? And that you take Captain Rogers with you unless you wish for me to contact Agent Romanoff or Agent Coulson?_

"Yeah, maybe Steve? And is there a vet nearby?" Clint asks as he rises to his feet. The dog –Arrow, but hell if he is going to call him that even in his head – rises with him, tail wagging away.

He supposes he should know the local vet offices along with all of the ways to get around near the tower and which buildings he can access; vets are a good source of first aid supplies when you needed to keep an injury secret, although, over the years, most of them were doing a much better job in securing their supplies and drugs thanks to Hollywood letting everyone know their usefulness. Not knowing just shows how much of his edge he's lost in accepting Tony's hospitality and the Avenger's gig. That he felt he doesn't need to know when he has access to a medical bay complete with an operating theatre, three onsite doctors and five nurses. And that's if he elects to bypass SHIELD's own medical facilities at the Manhattan HQ or the field office over in Brooklyn. (He'd still memorized where the two vet offices were close to his old place in Bed Stuy, and the three near Phil's apartment up near Columbia University.)

_You should cut back through the last thoroughfare and head west for four blocks, then make a right and go down the cross street just past what was a Met Life office and along the walkway still open next to the currently being rebuilt McDonald's. From there, two blocks to your left, is the Pet Trauma Center. I am taking the liberty of making you an appointment twenty minutes from now, with a Doctor Donna Davidson._

Because, in addition to having access to all public records such as phone books and business listings, JARVIS has taken note of Clint's penchant for back streets and construction sites, having tracked him during his initial wanderings. (Tony had fessed up to keeping much closer tabs on his new teammates in the first weeks after Thor had taken Loki away.) While it had disturbed Clint as much as it had Natasha at the time, he'd let her and Steve deal with teaching Tony proper boundaries instead of making his own fuss; he'd had plenty of other things to worry about beyond Tony's need to know everything. Now, surprisingly, Clint finds it kinda comforting, seeing JARVIS almost as a big brother (the good kind – not in the invasive, invasion of privacy way, nor in any way similar to who Barney had become), as the AI seems to truly be concerned only with their welfare and his ability to offer assistance, without being judgmental about anyone other than Tony.

(Accepting JARVIS had also become much easier when Clint and Natasha had found out the AI didn't automatically pass on his observations to Tony, nor stored them in any sort of file; likes and dislikes were simply data points for JARVIS to better make himself useful, the same as any other person would.)

"Thanks, JARVIS." Because, if the AI acts and reacts like a person, Clint should treat him like one.

_You are welcome, sir._

"So you heard the man, pup," Clint addresses the dog next as he picks up and pockets the phone. "We've got some walking still to do." Assuming, of course, the dog will follow. If he doesn't, Clint isn't sure what he'll do. The whole situation is strange and convoluted enough that he would like to get to the bottom of it. He is also even less willing now to have the dog be picked up by animal control despite not being sold on the idea that he's in anyway responsible for the dog either, just because someone – as a joke or something else – wants to think that Clint is.

He's certainly not interested in carrying the damn thing for a mile –

Well, that doesn't appear likely. The dog keeps to Clint's feet, only occasionally trying to fit in between in his excitement, and only trailing behind when he stops to lap up water from some of the remaining puddles. Clint starts to feel a little guilty and concerned that the dog has only had maybe a third of a piece of pizza in a while, that maybe he should stop and get him something more, but Clint doesn't know of any deli with an outside window like some of the other hole-in-the-wall restaurants nearby do, and he's not sure what the dog would do if he actually left him outside while Clint slipped inside the bodega he would be coming up on soon.  It's bad enough they are walking without a leash between them, although now that they're off the heavily trafficked streets, Clint is less concerned with being noticed.

The dog lets out a sudden growl and stops, turning partway back toward an opening they've just passed. In the next instance Clint hears it too, the soft thwack flesh hitting flesh makes, followed by voices trying to stay quiet out of menace as well as fear.

Well, fuck.

He calls up his mental map of the area, placing the street while also trying to place each of the businesses or what not so he might have a better idea of what he's about to walk into.  Florist, empty, bar, empty, empty, door to a four-story walk-up, empty, news and liquor store …

That they're using their fists instead of a more intimidating weapon could mean it's not a random assault or mugging. And if it's a drug deal, it sounds a lot more like a regular supplier and customer, not one dealer moving in to take out another, at least not with any of the major gangs involved. From being near a bar as well as the newsstand, it could just as easily be a bookie taking out some of his frustration on a non-paying customer, but so many empty buildings could be an enticement for gangbangers or one of the mobs to take advantage and deal with some internal strife. All in all, Clint shouldn't necessarily be getting involved, since domestics are the crimes that most endanger the folks trying to break them up, but on the other hand, superheroes shouldn't just be dealing with the big world saving things lest they forget who they're really fighting for –

"Stay here," Clint orders the dog, not that he thinks he has any hope of being listened to. "Sit," he tries anyway, because someone gave the dog some training, and sit should be one of the first commands he'd been taught.

The dog sits.

Shaking his head and definitely promising himself he'll get to the bottom of this dog business, Clint eases back down to the street to peer around the corner.

Five guys. Two are holding a third, with the fourth doing the punching (mainly body shots), and a fifth standing in the open doorway to the second empty building, just watching. Poor number three has a stack of money jammed in his mouth to keep him quiet; so, most likely someone who either didn't pay his full debt or someone who got caught skimming from the top. Definitely a domestic, with all parties known to each other, but employee or client, no one deserves to get beaten half to death.

"I think he gets the point, fellas," Clint calls out quietly as he moves into this back street from the last. While he's no Steve Rogers or Thor, he's worked pretty hard to mold the body nature gave him, and he knows he has a look that's damn intimidating, whether he has a weapon in hand or not, whether he's trying to be intimidating or not. (Tasha is more intimidating, of course, but so much of the fear factor around her is her reputation; someone has to actually have met her – to _know_ her – to be intimidated by her just walking toward them. Just like they need to know about Phil in reality compared to how soft and innocuous he looks.)

"Don't need no boy scouts around here and this don't concern you or the cops," one of the guys holding up the one getting beaten says. "Capeesh, Dudley?"

Capeesh? Dudley? Really? Were they basing their speech and trying to build a reputation from watching _Jersey Shore_ and old cartoons? Clint almost asks, but despite what some at SHIELD (along with Phil and Natasha) think, he does know when to mouth off and how far to go. Just because these guys are walking clichés, that doesn't mean they're jokes when it comes to getting what they perceive as their job done. Still, he can't just walk away, not when they're just as likely to kill their victim from lack of expertise or control.

"It may not concern me, but I do know a thing or two about beatings," Clint offers, his hands up from his waist and open to show he's not holding any weapons. "There are basically a couple of potential problems, both of which you're skirting toward. One," he adds quickly before he can be interrupted by words or violence, "is that if you beat a guy to death, well, you don't really get anything beyond the initial satisfaction. You're not going to get your money back, and you can't really go around telling other employees or clients this is how far you'll go if they cross you, since admitting to someone else you committed murder _always_ comes back to bite you in the ass."

He's continued to move forward, slowly, closing the distance toward them but not so close that they might begin to feel overly threatened. They would, if they knew him, because Clint can turn almost anything into a weapon, and the closer he is, the more accurate he can throw something, but that's the type of thing they would have to know in advance about him. It's pretty obvious they haven't recognized him as an Avenger or even as someone who is immersed in their world as deeply as they are, albeit on the other side.

What they have done is stop, for the moment, which is what Clint is working toward – giving their victim a break and opportunity to collect himself. Plus, maybe, get the guy too close to killing the victim to calm down a little or get their boss to.

"The second problem is when you don't kill someone but still beat them so badly that they break," Clint continues, carefully eying the environment around the six of them now, though not so he'd be noticed.

The three out in the alley aren't wearing guns and while there's a broken baseball bat nearby, it's not (or no longer) being used for the beating, which could imply they really aren't trying to kill their target. The boss could be carrying anything, or have something inside with him that could do lethal damage, of course, but odds are they are trying to make their point and only going about it badly.

"If he breaks, that leaves you with someone who might _never_ be able to make up for whatever he did to wrong you. Or, worse, someone who vows to never get that hurt again, usually by making sure you become the victim instead of them the next time. Either way, you're left with nothing if you continue with your actions. And that's not even taking into consideration what happens when the cops do inevitably get involved. "

"Fuck you," the boss responds then, as if his words are an order, all three of his minions abandon their current victim to turn their aggression against Clint.

He's not surprised. Not happy about it either, but the odds aren't insurmountable, and this kind of outcome is common enough in this kind of situation that he planned out his response as he moved forward.

As fast as the thugs are moving, Clint moves faster and needs only to get his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. In there, he keeps two small rubber balls that he sometimes uses to keep his hands and fingers limber while up in his sniper post, and that have more recently come in handy for Phil as he's still working to restore full movement and strength in his left arm.  His throws (side-armed, whip-fast and exactly where he aims with both hands), hits the two closest; square against the temple of the one who'd been performing the violence, while he needs to bounce the ball off the street in order to get one of the restrainers against the hollow of his throat as he's charging toward Clint like a linebacker for the Bears.  

The throat hit does what it should, steals the guy's breath with enough force that he's going to be worried about gasping for air for a while over anything else. The bigger guy is staggered from the temple hit, but still keeps coming, until Clint then lays him out with an uppercut to the jaw that this time jostles his brain into his skull to cause a blackout. The boss man disappears back into the vacant building, with Clint hoping he's simply a coward and getting out of dodge, leaving only the last minion and the victim who is desperately crawling away.

Of course this remaining guy is the one who really knows how to move and fight. He and Clint trade a series of hits and kicks, neither of them getting in any good blow though their mutual blocks are jarring enough that they're both breathing hard and grunting from the effort. Not to mention bruising. Clint has no compunction about fighting dirty, however (he's blocked a couple of groin shots as well as one to his eyes), and is willing to get hurt to bring this fight to an end. He fakes a little desperation and overextends with a haymaker that leaves his right side exposed. His opponent pounces on the opening with a hard jab to the ribs that indeed has Clint folding forward (but nothing broken), that in turn earns him an elbow drop against his kidney.  But Clint is now under the guy's guard in return, with a clear path to the guy's solar plexus. A heel punch with his left, dominant hand has the guy windmilling and completely open for knuckle jab to the sternum and _Clint's_ elbow drop is against the back of the guy's neck to put him down instead of just doing damage.

As Clint turns to make sure the other two are still out of the fight, he hears the scrape of a shoe behind  him; the boss had disappeared in the opposite direction and the only other person in the alley had been the victim –

Who has picked himself up along with the splintered off bat that he's fucking aimed at Clint's head with on over-the-head, two-handed swing instead of toward one of the guys who'd been doing a good job of killing him. Clint knows he can't turn fast enough, that raising an arm to block the blow would save his head against the first shot, but the resulting broken arm would slow him down and make it that much harder to block any subsequent swings. His only reasonable choice, then, is to drop before the blow lands, though that will entangle him with the guy he just put down and still leave him vulnerable for a few seconds while he twists to get clear.

Clint does just that, ready to take his weight on his left knee and hands so he can kick out and hope to connect with this new assailant's leg and leave him just as vulnerable while Clint then rolls into a tuck and regain his footing. Unfortunately, while his kick does connect, it's not with the force Clint expected. His own knee rolls and pitches him off balance as he lands on something sharp yet unyielding instead of just the stained concrete he'd expected.

The shift of his kneecap dislocating leaves Clint feeling nauseous and this time without options to evade the descending bat. It still doesn't connect, however. Well, yes, it does, but against poor Arrow's body instead of Clint's. Arrow gives a sharp yelp. The assailant's cry is more of a scream, and much louder, as Arrow had been going for the guy's other arm and while the dog can't keep his hold as his body is flung into the wall of the nearest building from the force of the impact, his teeth had made purchase and now tears through material, skin and sinew.

Clint has no sympathy for the guy (kinda hopes Arrow has permanently maimed him if not having torn deeply enough that the fucker bleeds out), given he's decided taking out the Good Samaritan that tried to keep him from getting killed is a better idea than getting out of Dodge or even saying thank you. While the guy is flailing and howling, Clint hyperextends his knee in the hope of mitigating the dislocation, then surges up and wrenches the bat away. He has to fight his own impulse to use it in turn a couple of times, and settles for giving the guy just enough of a tap against his temple to put him out without killing him. He then pulls at the guy's collar and rips his buttons apart, not minding the abrasions the guys probably gets from tugging the rest of the shirt off one arm that he might bunch and wrap the bulk of the material around the guy's copiously bleeding wrist.

As far as Clint is concerned, that's enough first aid, and as for the other three unconscious bodies, either the boss will deal with them, or the cops will. Clint's concern now is for Arrow, who's whimpering and trying to move toward Clint, although most likely half of his rib cage has been stove in. Clint pulls off his hoodie then twists his knee trying to realign things before rising and limping forward. He has to bite his lip to keep from making noise when his crouch pulls on his knee, but manages to wrap the hoodie around Arrow much more carefully than he had dealt with the other guy. He can't stay quiet when he then gets a hold of Arrow and has to lift the both of them up, and almost wishes that Arrow would snap at him in retaliation.  Arrow, however, still seems to trust him and only licks at the skin he can reach before lolling his head against Clint's chest as Clint clutches him close to his body.

By Clint's reckoning, the vet's office is three blocks away. He's blown his appointment time, but he is pretty sure they treat pet emergencies like emergency rooms do people ones, so all he has to do is get there.

He does. It isn't easy and he doesn't want to think about how long it took him or how many people he and Arrow both growled at when they were likely only coming close to offer help. Clint can only hope his own stupidity hasn't cost Arrow his life. The two of them are both whimpering now, as Clint's entire leg is a flare of agony from his half lope, half limp, but they are also both hanging in there (he only had to stop and throw up once, somehow managing to lean over far enough to miss puking on Arrow as well as his own boots). Crashing through the front doors, Clint's breath is coming out harsh and too rapidly, the people and his surroundings now simply blurs.

"Please," he manages to choke out while lifted Arrow a little higher as an offering, hoping to god that someone understands what he's asking for as he can't finish his plea.

Sure enough, people begin bustling around him, two showing up with an actual gurney, and in the next moment Arrow is being carefully taken and laid down. Clint is having flashbacks of too many times spent in similar circumstances, as both the emergency room patient and a concerned partner/lover/friend, to the point that he's hallucinating Phil's voice calling his name.

"We've got this, sir," he is told, someone carefully prying his fingers from where they've gripped the rail of the gurney, not in an attempt to stop them, but needing to stay connected, to maybe follow –

"Clint, it's okay. Let go and let them help the dog."

The dog. Someone said the dog, not Natasha (or Phil, Tony, Jasper… )

Not someone. Phil. Real Phil. _His_ Phil, who is somehow there and gently pulling him back, abruptly tightening his hold when Clint's knee buckles. In the next moment, Clint is being helped to one of the chairs against a wall, away from the wide eyes and surprised faces of other pet owners, some of whom are holding their animals and some who are empty-handed and holding similar expressions to what Clint suspects his is right now (though without the additional confusion).

"Phil?" Clint has had some good hallucinations in his life thanks to drugs used against him as well as to aid him, but he is in too much pain and sitting on an uncomfortable chair for this to be one of his own hospital stays. And the only villains that might be sitting across from him while compulsively petting their cat are in Hollywood films.

"JARVIS caught me on my way home. I thought to meet you here and go with you to confront the dog's owner –"

"Arrow. His name is Arrow."

"Seriously?"

Clint shrugs. "That's the name on the tag. I was thinking it was a little too pat, but …" he shrugs again and lets his words trail off, not sure what he's trying to say, what he should say.

At some point Phil has shifted his hold from Clint's shoulders to his hands, is crouching down in front of Clint instead of sitting beside him. "Clint, what happened? Where are _you_ hurt?"

"I'm not –" but, of course, that's wrong. He is hurt. Not that badly compared to previous incidents, but he's not going to be able to get himself home without help. Not that he's planning on leaving until Arrow can come with him –

"Clint?"

Right. Fuck. Clint drags a hand up to rub at his face, not sure why he's so out of it and now feeling embarrassment over his lack of professionalism. It doesn't matter that it's Phil asking, not Agent Coulson, or that Clint has just been himself for the last hour, not an Avenger or an agent of SHIELD.

"A bagman or client or something got caught holding out and was being taught the error of his ways. I got involved, made a rookie mistake, and damn near got my head bashed in, but Arrow attacked in my defense and took the hit even as he took the hitter down. I… I had to get Arrow help, so I just left them there."

"Where?" Phil asks, his voice taking a little more of Agent Coulson's tone although his eyes are still all Phil; open and showing his concern and affection instead of just bland detachment. "And how many?'

Phil's questions are normal and remarkably grounding. Clint takes a deep breath finally looks up from staring down at the floor (not that he could even come up with whether it's tiled or carpeted, or its colors).

"The first side street  off of fifty-fifth heading toward 10th Avenue. There are four of them, maybe five or more if the boss came back to see how it ended. It looks like they're using the second-to-last empty building for taking care of business. No one seemed to have weapons beyond a baseball bat, so I didn't pull mine."

Phil nods. He has his phone out and starts texting, but looks up every few characters to offer encouragement and reassurance, to simply keep their connection. Normally Clint would be bristling over being coddled while in public (even by Phil), but he knows he's currently a basket-case and can only appreciate that Phil is there with him – is there _for_ him. Today has just been too surreal to deal with with his usual competence or composure.

"And your injuries?"

"I've fucked up my knee, popped the kneecap though I shifted it back.  Everything else is just scrapes and bruises."

Phil squeezes his hand before rising with his own wince, which fans Clint's guilt. He moves out of Clint's sight for a moment, then returns holding out a cold bottle of water which he hands over before taking the seat next to Clint.  He makes no suggestion that they leave, for which Clint is grateful since he hates disregarding and disappointing Phil. Clint knows the longer he leaves things, the longer it will take him to get back to a hundred percent, but he can fight impaired if he has to and, as far as he knows, SHIELD doesn't have a mission lined up for him in the near future.

As Phil is back to texting, Clint carefully sips at the water for a few minutes, then leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, lulled enough by the knowledge that Phil has his back to let down his guard, relax, and really work on regaining his equilibrium. The next thing he is aware of is someone sitting down next to him. Clint, even in his hindbrain, knows it has to be someone safe because Phil would allow nothing else, so he slowly lets his head roll that direction and open his eyes.

Steve.

And Tony is seated in one of the contortionist-friendly chairs just beyond. While Tony's eyes hold the irrepressible sparkle that very rarely fades, given that his response to fuck ups (his own as well as someone else's) is to mock, his overall mien is sober, while Steve fairly radiates concern and calm regard.

"Did someone decide to have a party?" Clint has to ask, because if Tony isn't going to be impertinent, he will.

"I think it's more of a wake," Tony offers, then holds his hand up when Clint jolts upright.

"Not for your dog," he says quickly, even as Phil once more grabs onto one of Clint's hands to offer comfort as well as to keep him from standing. Tony's lips then quirk into something self-deprecating and almost apologetic. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking about why we're here now, but why you were coming here in the first place."

Either Clint is less recovered than he'd hoped, or Tony is being even more ambiguous than is his given wont.

"Arrow is still in surgery," Phil tells him softly, knowing Clint's concern and having the answer, as he always does.

"Don't worry about the cost, or about aftercare," Tony says next. "I've got JARVIS ordering everything you'll need and a dog would want –"

"Arrow isn't my dog," Clint protests despite, maybe, wishing differently.  He doesn't say anything about the money, because over the last few months Clint's learned that that's just Tony, that the guy really doesn't understand how people might want to take care of things themselves and not feel beholden. Clint suspects Tony sees spending money on his friends as some kind of balancing thing, and since Clint won't ever deny Natasha her need to balance her ledger although he feels she owes him nothing, he's stopped trying to convince Tony differently too.

"Actually, he is," Steve spoke up, his expression turning back to concern and sympathy from the frustration he's been directing Tony's way.

"Explain," Phil requests when Clint just lets his head thunk back against the wall.

Steve pulls out a letter and offers it over. "This is all we found at the address JARVIS sent us to. Ah, JARVIS overheard the altercation and figured you had more important things to deal with than tracking down a dog owner – "

"But that … I didn't – " Tony starts to bitch, except Steve continues to talk over him:

"When Tony and I got there, we found an empty unit except for the letter, addressed to you as Hawkeye. Normally we wouldn't have opened it, but given everything, with how little things seemed to be making sense, I thought that Tony and JARVIS being able to piece things together and determine the threat level would be more important than maintaining your privacy. If I've overstepped, I apologize… "

Clint shakes his head and waives Steve's painful sincerity off lest he start feeling guilty over making Captain America feel guilty. (Clint also suspects that Tony was the one to breach the seal of the envelope before Steve could say anything even though Steve's reasoning after the fact makes sense.)

He unfolds the letter and holds it out so Phil can read it to, not sure of what to expect but even if Steve and Tony hadn't already read it, Clint doesn't generally keep much from Phil.

_Hawkeye –_

_I'm sorry, I don't know what else to call you. I hope that this letter finds you well and that you can find forgiveness for my forwardness as well as for the responsibility I intend to leave you.  You don't know us and you certainly do not owe us anything, having already granted me the greatest gift I could ever have asked for, but …_

_During the Battle of Manhattan, my husband and my Tommy were in the bus that you protected and evacuated. Tommy is still totally enamored with the hero with the bow just like the Indians, but I must admit that he was mollified with the Hulk pillow we found for him when we couldn't find a Hawkeye one at the store and I am busy trying to make him a Hawkeye costume for Halloween, although he will have to go trick or treating in his new neighborhood instead of the one he grew up in._

_Please forgive me again, I can't seem to get to the point._

_My husband and son were on the bus that day because Matt's Oncologist needed Matt to meet with him over at his Central Park office instead of the hospital, and Tommy just loves riding the bus, especially when his daddy can ride with him. The appointment was to tell Matt that his cancer was in remission and, even though that turned out not to be accurate, it was only your involvement that gave us the four more months the three of us had together._

_None of this explains Arrow, of course, but in reality it does, as I hope it also explains the series of foolish actions I have undertaken. When we discovered Matt's cancer had only been hiding and spreading to new parts of his body, the two of us thought Tommy would cope better with his daddy's illness if Tommy had something that not only he could take care of like Mommy was taking care of Daddy, but if he then had a companion he loved after his daddy died. Thus we picked up Arrow, who Tommy named with great happiness. I never would have considered it, had we known just how extensively Matt's cancer was spreading, or how little time he had left, but I also couldn't take Arrow away from Tommy once the two of them had bonded._

_Except now I must, as Matt's sudden death has left me unable to cope. Tommy and I are moving in with Matt's parents, who live in a small community outside of Pittsburg. They live in a no pets apartment, and asking them to either flout the agreement, fight for Arrow or god forbid, move, is too much when they already have to deal with the loss of their son while also raising their grandchild. The only way I could console Tommy in losing Arrow was to promise him that Arrow would be well loved in his new home, that Arrow would become a hero just like hero who saved Tommy and his daddy on the day the aliens came._

_To that end, I paid a dog trainer to teach Arrow how to be the best dog he could, one who won't be any trouble and be well behaved. As far as getting Arrow to bond with you, I must admit that about a month ago, I witnessed another of the Avenger's battles. On that day you were dressed as a civilian, were with an older man walking through Central Park when the villains attacked. When you took off your jacket before engaging with the Wrecking Crew, I snuck from my cover to steal it, intending to give it to Tommy. Instead, at the trainer's suggestion, it became part of Arrow's bedding, so that he might learn your scent and associate it to receiving comfort and food. If you've found this letter, I can only hope it's because you found Arrow, or he you, when I turned him loose near Stark Tower as Tommy and I left town._

_Just as I hope you won't turn down a creature whose only fault was exciting a young boy and attracting the attention of a foolish woman._

_One last thing I must ask of you – no, beg – is that if you do not find Arrow, or if you do and yet find that you cannot care for him, please lie in your next interview and say that you have a dog named Arrow regardless. I know I have no right to place yet another burden on you, but it will mean everything to Tommy, and everything to me._

_Thank you, and may the good Lord bless you for all your days._

_Claire Baker_

Jesus fuck. Clint doesn't know whether to scream or cry, to rail or to thank the woman, since he'd already become attached, even before the damn pup saved his life.

He lets his head thunk back against the wall for a third time, would do it a fourth save that Phil's tugging on his hand as if he knows (of course he knows). Clint lets Phil stop him, and maybe clutches back a little tightly.

"We can," Steve begins, his face a mixture of distress and consternation, no doubt having a strong opinion that Clint should do the right thing, but not wanting to make it sound like an order from Captain America, Clint's de facto leader and the fucking moral compass of the Avengers. "If you don't want …"

"No, I will," Clint responds although he can't keep looking at Steve's wounded hopefulness, or Tony's uncomfortable sympathy, and instead gives in to leaning against Phil's ready shoulder and letting his eyes fall to half-mast. "I always wanted a dog when I was Tommy's age," he offers up, the truth, but not something he ever would have expressed at the time, nor is he willing to say anything further about why he never got one.

"I guess over the last few years, I'd given up thinking my lifestyle and being a pet owner could mesh, but it's not like it will be just me watching after him, right?" he asks, primarily the other two since he already knows Phil's answer, even though Phil is nominally a cat person.

"I'll even hire a doggy physical therapist," Tony promises, then looks away when he realizes how cavalier that sounds, given they don't know whether Arrow is going to survive, much less be able to get around on his own again.

"Arrow will always have a home with the Avengers," Steve vows.

Clint grimaces, not because of Steve's earnestness, but because he'll never be able to rename the dog now. Tasha's going to laugh herself silly once he brings the dog home. But then he figures dealing with Tasha's teasing will be fine, since it would mean that Arrow's around for him to be mocked about the pup's name. He could definitely live with that.

And it would be cool to have a dog trotting alongside him, at home or maybe even on the job sometime since Arrow has already proven his fierceness and ability to take down the criminal element. Hawkeye and Arrow. It had a nice ring.

Not to mention that he, the least likely Avenger to get a sidekick, gets one first.

– finis –

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
